


When the sun dismisses the fog (of war)

by gyunikum



Category: Dunkirk (2017)
Genre: Gen, M/M, Movie Spoilers, Platonic Relationships, Post-Movie, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-03
Updated: 2017-08-03
Packaged: 2018-12-10 14:43:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11693850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gyunikum/pseuds/gyunikum
Summary: It takes less than a day for Collins to find out whether Farrier has died on that doomed beach or not.





	When the sun dismisses the fog (of war)

**Author's Note:**

> also peter adopts collins

 

 

_"Frequency check, Fortis Two. What’s the plan after this mission?"_

_“We’ll grab a pint when we get back. I’ll even watch the sunset with you,”_ Farrier promised. _“Over,_ ” he added, voice static until Collins fine-tuned his radio.

 _“I’ll hold you to that. Over,_ _”_ Collins said, holding the mask to his face. He’d closed the canopy already. Farrier’s Spitfire parked right in front of his. They were waiting for permission to take off. _“Radio comms are fully functional.”_

 _“Alright guys,_ ” their wing leader said. Collins ignited the engine, and his plane roared to life. _“Let’s help our boys over there.”_

 

Collins watches the sunset aboard the Moonstone, a civilian vessel. It’s his first time on a proper yacht, and probably the last as well.

And he’s alone, though the boat is loaded full of exhausted soldiers covered in oil, spilled blood of a steel monster, sunken to the bottom of the ocean. Some of them stare ahead of themselves— never to return fully from that unknown distance. There are two civilians on board, the captain and his son, and a third, dead boy below decks, another body to appease the insatiable hunger of war.

Collins is alone. The sun sets with a show, the sky the colour of a slow, apricot explosion. It gets chilly out on the sea despite being late May, but Collins has dried completely, sans his socks— the worst feeling right behind being shot in the guts.

He’s been shot— once. While dogfighting with a Jerry in the air, the shrapnel of a 7.92 mm round grazed a long line right across his torso— his Hurricane remained functional, except the wind tore through the holes in the cockpit. Collins had managed to bail out while his blood poured out of his stomach, and he watched, clinging to his chute for dear life, as Farrier hunted down the unlucky bastard like a bloodthirsty hound locked on the scent of its prey. Farrier never risked the success of a mission, but neither was he willing to risk Collins— he never chose between either. It was always the mission _and_ Collins.

Farrier has been shot at a lot more times. His body was a book full of wounds, each with their own tales. Collins knew a third quarter of them, has seen those stories unfold with his own eyes. Had his hands pressed onto half of them, Farrier leaking out of them through Collins’ bloody fingers.

If Farrier promised Collins something, he would keep to that.

Yet when Collins steps on British soil, Farrier is not there. The sun is gone already, just like that, without a word— there is a reason Collins and Farrier never say goodbye to each other before a mission.

Nobody is waiting for Collins in the harbour, but thousands of soldiers marching towards the train coaches at the nearby tracks, and insults from those who recognize the brevet on Collins’ wrinkled uniform.

“Where the hell were you?” Spits a soldier at Collins’ feet, his soot-blackened face melting into the night as if he had bathed in shadows— he looks like a ghost, haunting Collins for his failure. One more added to the list of his demons, nothing that Collins hadn’t already learned to handle.

Still, the old man, Mr Dawson, steps up to Collins. “They know where you were.” Collins shakes his hand, again, thankful, and then the captain of Moonstone puts his hat on and disappears into the crowd.

When Collins turns around, he notices Peter, the kid that pulled him out from the claws of death.

“Hey lad,” Collins says, earning the boy’s attention. He’s still wearing his knit sweater, its crimson colour deeper at his sleeves. Oil, water, blood. “Thanks for saving my arse.”

“It was my dad,” Peter says, worrying his lips. He looks lost, like he doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do now that he’s off the boat. It reminds Collins of himself, when he’s not in the air. They don’t belong on the ground. “I insisted that you were probably dead— I hadn’t seen a chute and—”

“It’s alright,” Collins places a hand on the kid’s shoulder. He looks thin, but only the clothes he’s wearing sets him apart from the soldiers passing by. Peter could easily be one of them. “In hindsight, I should’ve bailed out. Just didn’t want to get my dress too wet.”

Chutes don’t always work contrary to popular belief. Landing on water was Collins’ best bet at surviving the whole ordeal.

Peter scoffs. “In the end, you got everything wet.”

“Aye,” Collins laughs, his hand still resting on Peter’s shoulder. He sees the kid wants to say something, it’s written on his face, so Collins tips his head to the side curiously.

“I— I’m glad I was wrong. I panicked.”

“We all do, lad,” Collins says, and then he takes a deep breath, feeling his throat constrict. “I panicked too, when I couldn’t get out,” he admits, not sure why. Maybe it’s to reassure himself that it’s not a sin to lose it for a moment, maybe it’s just to reassure Peter.

“I wasn’t there to— save my brother.” Peter is not looking at him, but Collins doesn’t blame the kid for avoiding his eyes. He must be shaken from the events today, and the terror of war doesn’t differentiate between soldier and civilian.

“He would be proud of you,” Collins smiles. He’s an only child, the only one to carry on his unknown father’s surname – he won’t, but he’s already come to terms with it – but with Peter, he feels a fragment of what it must feel like having a younger brother, one that depends on him. “I’m proud of you. Today, you were a soldier.”

The corner of Peter’s mouth curls slightly as he purses his lips. With the conversation done, they stand next to each other quietly, watching the throngs of soldiers. Civilian vessels still come into the docks, carrying more and more British, even as the clock ticks towards midnight, and exhaustion creeps up Collins’ legs, like a merciless reminder that he’s still alive.

Peter notices him turning his head, looking between the arriving boats as Collins scours the newcomers in search for a familiar face. The silence between them would be awkward if not for the constant murmur of the soldiers and the occasional yell of an officer guiding the crowds.

“Are you not going to leave with the train?” Peter asks, somewhat carefully.

“Nah, I—” Collins starts, “I think I’ll wait for Farrier.”

“The other pilot?” At Peter’s question, all Collins can manage is a single nod, half of his mind on the task of looking for Farrier in the waves of people. “He— do you think he survived?”

“He should,” Collins says without thinking. “He promised me a pint.” Then absentmindedly, he adds, “and a sunset.”

“Oh,” Peter says, and then Collins promptly forgets about the kid for an hour or so until he returns with a wool blanket.

Collins looks up from where he’s sat down on a bench along the pier, watching the docks like a sentinel. The people have thinned out, as have the arriving boats. The sea is completely black, like it’s a pool of oil from where he pulled out a dozen people. The last train carrying soldiers is about to depart from its designated pick-up site. The first day of the evacuation has come to an end, only to start anew at the break of dawn next day— but Collins wants to be there when a ship drops Farrier off so they can return to the airbase together.

So they can get their new planes together, and then leave for another mission together, like they always do. Like it should be.

“Here,” Peter says, holding a cup to Collins. Steam rises from its mouth, like white smoke. The lamp above Peter’s head casts deep shadows onto his face, it makes him look a lot older than he is. Maybe he is. Maybe the battle today forced him to grow up. He wouldn’t be the first one, nor the last son to do so.

Collins pulls the blanket closer around his shoulders and accepts the drink, the only kind of sustenance he’s had all day since he left the airbase late afternoon. He’s hungry too, but appetite is pushed away by a sick anticipation in his stomach, a thought of worst case scenario Collins can barely wrap his mind around yet. He expects Peter to leave, no other reason for the boy to sit in the cold spray of sea than to wait for the cup, but instead he settles down next Collins quietly, and inhales the smell of death the wind blows their way. He’s dressed in a coat now, the neck of his sweater beige coloured this time. Collins wants to tear his own uniform off his body— he feels sticky from sweat, yet his skin is dry from the seawater. He doesn’t regret wearing it, though.

 _“Why do you always wear this bloody thing?”_ Farrier had asked once. They were smoking from a single cigarette right outside the back exit of the hangar where their planes awaited them.

 _“So they won’t have to re-dress my body to my funeral,”_ Collins had said and Farrier had laughed, the war turning even their humour gruesome.

“Have you flown a lot?” Peter asks.

Collins hums behind the cup, and then downs the last gulp of the tea. It tastes a lot better than what he was given on the Moonstone. At that time he didn’t complain, but he would be lying if he said he wasn’t longing for some proper tea, with milk and a gratuitous amount of sugar that never fails to bring up Collins’ heart rate— it’s the next best thing he can do to accumulate all the pleasures of his life; milk and sugar in the fucking tea.

“Got me license some time before the Nazis invaded Poland. Met Farrier on the first day—” he says, smiling at the fond memory. “Been partners since then.”

The war is into its first year, but the two of them have been through so much already— enough to last them a lifetime, however short it might turn out to be. One of their lieutenants has once told them to think of themselves as already dead, because that was how they were going to survive without being driven insane by hope and its sweet promises.

Collins and Farrier, they died each time they climbed into their planes, and they were revived when they returned to the airbase, like revenants coming back from an Axis-built necropolis.

That’s exactly the same reason why Collins wears his pristine blues to every mission. It helps him come to terms with the fact that he might not return one day, but still keep him going whenever he needs a burst of inspiration not to give up.

“How many have you killed?” Peter continues asking, and it could easily be one, but it doesn’t feel like an interrogation at all. It feels like going home after a long time for the weekend, and his younger brother welcomes him with all these questions, drinking in every word Collins recounts of his days in the war. It’s no bedtime story, but in a time of war, fairy tales are best kept under the bed.

“More than five, so you better watch the papers in case my name makes it there among the aces.” At Peter’s impressed face, Collins lets out a laugh, and lifts his hand to mess the boy’s combed hair. Peter leans out of the way, a proper grin on his face for the first time in long hours.

“I want to join too— serve the country,” Peter says, and there is a determination in his voice that Collins thinks hasn’t been there before the day’s events. “The navy.”

“You certainly have the experience,” Collins agrees. Most boys drafted to the infantry, just a year or two older than Peter, have even less experience at war. If not for today, Peter would be the same.

“My brother had experience too.” Peter’s lower lip trembles a bit, and Collins catches it just in time before the boy sets his expression. “And now he’s dead.”

“Experience doesn’t make us invincible,” Collins sighs. His hand hovers in the air, just above Peter’s knee. He’s not sure what he should do— pat the kid to comfort him, or just give him some space? Collins has never been good with kids – or just people in general – not like Farrier.

Farrier has always been a people’s person. Everybody loved— _loves_ him.

Collins too.

“Then— do you think experience makes Farrier invincible?” Peter asks, not-innocently, and there is no emotion on his youthful face. The only thing Collins sees on him is a layer of rage in his eyes. The arch of his eyebrows is remorseless. He’s mad at Collins, he’s mad at the world, but he doesn’t want it to show— it doesn’t matter because Collins sees it.

“No.”

“Then he’s probably dead.” Peter stands up. Collins looks at the borderline where the sea doesn’t reflect the lamppost’s glow anymore. He hears the clink of the cup as Peter grabs it and accidentally hits it against the armrest of the bench, and Collins stares at the sea, willing a last ship to sail forth from the clutches of midnight, with Farrier standing on the bow like a damn god, invincible, unscathed— a guardian angel with steel wings that swoops down from the white heavens to punish the Krauts.

“We’ll see,” is all Collins says, shifting a bit. He doesn’t hear Peter’s footsteps, but neither does he turn his head to make sure the kid is still there.

After a tense moment, Peter speaks up. “How are you so sure?”

“I’m not,” Collins replies. “That’s why I’m freezing my arse off right now. D’you think I’m doing this for fun?” Now, he looks at Peter, but only for a quick glance. It catches the boy off guard.

“N-no,” he stutters. “The inns must be full by now,” he says then, changing the topic. “Do… do you have anywhere to stay tonight?”

“Bench’s good enough,” Collins says, patting the uncomfortable wooden plank. “I will sleep as much as I want when I’m dead.”

A minute passes. Or more. Collins is good at keeping track of time – and fuel – but only in the air. This day has felt like an eternity anyway, time stretching on them like a thin veil of haze.

“What? No. We live nearby. Come. I’m sure pa won’t mind— a hero shouldn’t sleep on the bench.”

Collins thinks, he’s no hero at all, just a mere pawn in a bloody game, but he glances at Peter, then looks to the open sea one last time, and he stands up to follow Peter to his home, a brick house wedged between two other identical buildings. Nothing of the exterior says anything about the family living in there being able to afford a pleasure boat, but the inside is cosy and spacious— compared to the orphanage where Collins grew up or the barracks where he had to share his living space with a dozen other guys, Peter’s home feels like the Buckingham Palace.

Mr Dawson looks at Collins curiously, but half a sentence is enough for an explanation to him, and offers to make tea while Peter leaves to fetch a quilt for the couch in the living room.

“Bathroom’s down the hallway behind the stairs,” Mr Dawson says over a book. It’s as if today hasn’t even happened, but his slightly trembling hands say otherwise. Still, it turns his handwriting unreadable, but Collins takes his eyes off just in time to see Peter walk past the kitchen’s entrance, face smashed into a thick duvet as he navigates the hallway completely blind.

“Dad, where’s mum?” Peter’s voice asks from some unknown part of the house. Collins feels like he’s just in the way. The water is taking its sweet time to boil.

“She said she’d be helping out at the school all day,” Mr Dawson says, and then after a moment, he closes the book. “I’ll go fetch her. She’s probably forgotten to check the clock. Again.”

Mr Dawson leaves, but not before he sends a meaningful look Collins’ way, and Collins just nods, though he’s not sure to what— is it _take care of my only son_ or _my only son will take care of you_ , Collins wonders.

Collins takes the liberty to explore the home, down the hallway right next to the staircase, and it’s only a few steps to the living room. The room is spacious just like the rest of the house, and Peter is in the middle fluffing up a small pillow when he notices Collins in the door.

“I’ve got you a towel,” Peter says, combing through his golden hair, and Collins knows it’s the latter. He doesn’t mind, and it makes the whole thing less awkward. “And, uh—”

Peter stands there, in the middle of the living room where he’s grown up, a place that Collins has never had, and suddenly he feels like he’s looking through a mirror to the past, at his own younger self, at the cusp of adulthood when the world came crashing on him— _‘either the street or the army’_ the headmistress had said, and Collins chose the latter _._

“Here.” Peter unwinds his arms and holds a pile of folded clothes on top of the towel. “I’m not sure if the size is right—”

Butter yellow pyjamas with brown stripes, and they are not Peter’s nor his father’s. It smells musky, as if it hasn’t been worn for quite some time.

Collins makes sure not to touch Peter when he takes the pile, and after a brief _thanks_ he retreats into the bathroom, a little bit overwhelmed at the hospitality. He didn’t plan on playing guest for a kid who probably sees his dead brother in him, looks up to him even without knowing the atrocities Collins has done in the past – and will do in the future, if that’s what the war wants from him – but neither did he plan on crashing into the ocean after just half an hour. He didn’t plan on waiting for Farrier to return— they were supposed to return together.

The bathtub fills with warm freshwater, and Collins hears the cold seawater filling the Spitfire’s cockpit, closing around his feet, ankles, waist up till his neck, and he can’t breathe— he’s gripping the edges of the tub, nails scraping against the painted iron, screeching loudly in his ears, and the water level only reaches his hips, but it’s lapping at his chin, as if death was trying to kiss him on his lips, and the flare gun is somewhere underneath the seat— and then it’s quiet.

Collins peels his fingers off the tap, now only dripping, and the water wants to relax his muscles, warm like a lover’s embrace like in those cheap romance novels Farrier reads almost every night, open over his chest after he falls asleep. Collins hugs his knees to his chest and squeezes his eyes shut, but the images keep returning like a silent movie— he sees his last moments, and then Peter is not there, and Collins is dead, trapped inside the prison of his plane— the only thing that has given him freedom and solitude, the only place where he could be alone and free.

Oh, the irony.

Collins is alive.

 

Peter wails. His voice rips through the night. It rips through Collins’ chest.

“Dad!”

Collins has heard worse, soldiers screaming in agony, limbs torn off and guts spilled out on the ground, but Peter’s voice chills him to the bones. A child’s terrified scream as the world introduces him to the filth of the human race before he could even begin to grow his protective shell against reality.

“Dad— George— he’s dead!” The other words are slurred, and Collins hears footsteps above his head upstairs, rushing. He sits up on the couch, the collar of the pyjama shirt squeezing his neck as if Peter’s brother was trying to choke Collins from beyond the grave for not protecting the boy, and he listens to the whimpers of an unprepared family touched by the war. They are not the first family, and will not be the last.

Collins thinks, nobody can prepare for the horrors out there— not even seasoned warriors. What shield does a young boy have to protect himself with, Collins asks himself as he looks at his own armour, shattered into tiny pieces already.

What shield does Collins have without Farrier?

 

Collins sits by the quay under the first light, dawn bleeding through the cracks of heavy clouds, the sun still below the horizon— as if it was submerged, but refusing to drown. He’s left the Dawson residence sometime after Peter had calmed down and the residents had gone back to sleep, unable to stay there any longer— or else the comfort and guilt would seep into his healed wounds, keep him alive whenever Collins has to die in order to survive a mission.

The sea is restless, waves tall and angry. A few ships are missing from the berths, and a dozen people work their way through more boats, preparing to leave for Dunkirk again. God knows how many soldiers are still trapped on those beaches, God knows how many were rescued on the first day.

God knows how many of those people died because Collins went down too early, leaving only Farrier and a few gallons of juice to carry out the mission. Farrier was doomed the moment Collins was hit.

A shout pulls him out of his reverie, glad for the voice to break the chains that keep wrapping around him with thoughts of _what if_ s and _you could have_ s. Collins looks up, searching for the source until he notices a small crowd on one of the berths— a small yacht, so much like Moonstone, is ready to dock, dark shapes shifting on board.

Collins swallows and wrenches his fingers until his knuckles pop painfully. Bile rises from his stomach, burning his throat like Farrier’s secret stash of rum— the first soldier passes by him, taking the stairs slowly as the boy stares ahead of himself. Collins examines each face, unknown, unfamiliar, strangers, not Farrier, not Farrier, still not Farrier, and the ship empties without the other pilot ever coming up those stairs.

“You’re RAF?” someone asks, and Collins jerks his head towards the sky, neck cracking loudly. He looks at the tall man, face older than most of the soldiers coming from Dunkirk, and he sees the emblem of a Sergeant on his chest. “What are you doing here?”

“Got shot down,” Collins says simply.

“Yesterday?” the sergeant puts the two together. Collins nods, and braces himself for a series of questions as to why he hasn’t gotten his arse back to the airbase yet, but then— “we’ve got another pilot on one of ‘em ships."

“Come again?” Collins blurts out and he shoots to his feet. He catches himself, and quickly adds, “Sir.”

“Found him on the beach just before the Germans broke through,” the sergeant says, and it’s a hymn to Collins’ ears. “He’s on that one.”

Collins sits back onto the bench, eyes trained on a small sailing boat looking for an empty spot in the docks. The sergeant leaves without so much as a word before Collins could ask if the pilot is alive or not, and all Collins wants is to run down the quay, jump on that damn ship and see Farrier, make sure with his own eyes.

Yet he can’t lift his legs. He can’t lift his body off the bench, an invisible weight pulling him down.

He closes his eyes when the vessel docks. A string of murmur coming with the arriving soldiers hits his ears, the thuds of boots on the wooden planks, they scrape against the stone pavement, and Collins can hear the rustling of their heavy coats as the soldiers walk past him, quietly, too exhausted and terrified to utter even a word as if they were afraid that their voices would shatter this illusion of the quaint British town.

For the same reason, Collins squeezes his eyes shut and holds his breath back. He doesn’t want his own illusion to shatter so soon.

“Sunrise’s good enough for you?”

Collins opens his eyes, and there Farrier stands the same way he stood next to his Spitfire before taking off the previous day; slack, but shoulders squared, hands in his pockets, a slight crease on his forehead. His whole body leans to the side, left knee bent. His greasy hair is matted, and there’s a small, red gash across his left eyebrow.

“You’re still buying me that pint,” Collins breathes out and tugs Farrier into his arms, a gentle bear hug because he doesn’t know if Farrier is injured anywhere under his stained clothes. Farrier groans, leaning onto Collins with most of his weight.

“Aye mate, I cover your arse while you go down, and you still want me to buy you that bloody beer,” Farrier scoffs. “I see how it is.”

When they release each other, Farrier lifts his hands and fixes Collins’ haphazardly made tie around his neck. The turtleneck of Farrier’s sweater is splattered with blood, but Collins doesn’t voice it. He doesn’t care— Farrier is here and that’s all that matters to him right now.

Boats of all shapes and sizes come and go, and Collins and Farrier watch the sun rise over the sea, shoulder against shoulder. It’s strangely peaceful as they face a war-torn country hidden behind the horizon, wondering when it will reach them— the Channel is an abyss for a single human, but merely a small obstacle for the Luftwaffe. They are too far to see and hear, but they know there are pillars of smoke billowing to the sky and Krauts pushing forward and the French fighting tooth and claw to protect their soil, and there is death behind every corner, but here Collins feels resurrected on Farrier’s side, and he’s ready to step into the graveyard once again.

When the warmth of the sun strokes their cheeks, a nearby train blares its horn, ready to depart.

“That’s our ride back,” Farrier says, and Collins follows him, walking side by side, just the way they fly. Farrier limps, favouring his right leg, and Collins wraps his arm under the other pilot’s armpit, ready to carry all of Farrier if need be.

“What happened?” Collins asks as they shuffle closer to the train.

“Ran out of fuel after downing that bomber. Shot down another Stuka in glide over Dunkirk— ouch,” Farrier hisses when Collins stumbles in the train tracks. They reach the last car, and the soldier getting on before them offers a hand to Farrier.

“And your leg?” Collins continues, helping Farrier up from behind. The nameless soldier bids them goodbye with a flick of wrist.

“Low altitude. Lucky I didn’t break my neck.” Collins laughs, and steps out of the way for another soldier to climb up.

“Met a sergeant, said the Germans broke through the perimeter near where you landed.”

“Yeah,” Farrier grunts, then grins, and Collins can’t help but mirror it even before hearing what the grin is about. “They must’ve liked me bright and hot gift I sent them— they were so eager to get to me, I had to be rescued by some French gentlemen.”

“It’s the best burial you could’ve given your lady,” Collins says, grabbing onto the closest handle, and hops onto the grated steps of the train as a loud whistle rings through the waking morning. “My baby sleeps with the fish.”

“Everything is better than to be captured by the Nazis,” Farrier muses, and Collins hums in agreement. He looks at the harbour one last time, eyes scouring the whole area to carve it deep into his memory as a reminder.

At the mouth of a wide alley that leads deeper into the town, Collins notices a familiar boy, looking in their direction. With one hand holding onto the train as he stands on the steps, Collins waves at Peter, and then salutes the boy with a smile.

Peter salutes back, almost by-the-book like Collins used to be when he joined the RAF, and a building comes into view as the train slowly picks up speed.

“Who’s the lad?” Farrier asks. They don’t look for empty seats to sit down, though Farrier should— the end of the last coach is perfect for them.

“Saved me from drowning.”

“Canopy got jammed? Bloody hell, I thought you were waving at me.”

“Aye, that was me trying to open the cockpit.”

Farrier begins to laugh, and there is no more water rushing inside. The morning mist their train cuts across is just haze that Collins doesn’t care seeing behind, because Farrier dismisses any uncertainty, like a sun that shines through the fog.

**Author's Note:**

> watched the movie again in imax, was awesome despite having to travel 400km that day and sweating my ass off in 35 degrees. also decided to read a draft of the movie script. this movie has my soul for god knows why
> 
> once again find me @ gyunikum on twitter if ya wanna talk. i don't bite. really.


End file.
